


Germ Catcher

by pyrchance



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 04:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30083562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: It's their first tour together, barely a month after Frank was brought into the band.Of course Frank has to go and get sick.
Relationships: Frank Iero & Gerard Way
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Germ Catcher

Frank wakes up to a familiar scratch in the back of his throat. He clears it in vain like he always does and isn’t the least surprised when the itch remains. Or when he lifts his head up from where he had been using Mikey’s bass case a pillow and finds his skull twice as heavy as normal.

“You good, Frankie?”

In the seat ahead, Gerard has twisted around to blink owl-eyes at him. It’s always weird to look at the singer in the natural light of the van instead of down in the gloom of a show or his basement. He’s got this little burst blood vessel high on his cheek that is invisible in dim places.

Frank makes friends easily, and he’s pretty sure Gerard and the guys like him, but it’s an entirely different stretch between liking him as a dude to get high and party with and liking him enough to keep him in the band. He’s only been a part of this thing for a month. He’s not gonna let a little thing like a cold fuck up their first tour together.

Frank rolls his shoulders back with a wince and grins. “Yeah. Yeah, man. All good.”

Gerard gives him a buoyant smile with tiny teeth. “Cool. Ray says we’re stopping soon. Hey, do you got any smokes left?”

“I’ve got half a pack.”

“Can I bum one? I’ll totally pay you back once we get paid for the next show.”

Frank doesn’t give a shit about the money. He knows he’s not supposed to have cigarettes or even weed when he’s sick. His mom would kill him if she knew. But he’s not turning down a chance to get in good with the leader singer of his new band.

“Sounds cool,” he says, and resists leaning his head back against the seat and sleeping until they get there.

*

Frank gets through twelve more hours of discrete sniffling before the tickle in his throat turns into something with claws. He pulls the late night driving shift in the van after the show, and it’s almost good that he does because he can spit and clear his snot and phlegm as much as he likes. This band sleeps like the dead.

He spends the next morning crashing in the passenger seat until they arrive at the venue where he wakes up so cold he’s sweating through his jacket.

It’s good that it’s raining when they go to unload their shit. It means no one notices that Frank is already soaked through. He sort of feels bad for skimping out on helping Otter unload his drums and shit, but his fingers are already wobbly just from lifting his own amp and guitar in. He finds a stool near the bar, plops himself down, and orders a Ginger Ale and shot of orange juice from the bemused bartender.

“You sure you should be out tonight, kid?” the woman asks and Frank smiles at her because she sort of looks like Gerard’s mom, all big hair and long nails and huge eyelashes, and Frank doesn’t mind being coddled.

“I’m playing,” he says proudly. “That’s my band.”

She doesn’t stop looking sympathetic even after a quick glance at the stage. Frank maybe plays up his big eyes until she’s slipped him a pack of pretzels and warms up hot water for his tea in the back. He kicks his legs against the stool and smiles like a little kid and remembers how much he fucking loves being on tour.

The show that night is good. Even great, maybe. It doesn’t take much for Frank to lose himself in the music. It doesn’t really matter if his head is pounding when he’s thrashing around on the floor. He doesn’t matter if his throat is sore when he’s screaming. He feeds off the energy of the crowd, feeling eight times bigger than himself with every kid that sings the chorus. Frank’s not about to disappoint.

It’s just after, when he’s struggling to get his guitar case latched because his head is swimming, that Frank thinks maybe he’s over done it. He’s thinking about crawling his way back to the bar to weasel another cup of tea when a hand thuds hard and loud against his neck.

“Hurry it up, man,” says Otter, grumbling. “You’re not getting out of carrying shit this time.”

“I’m not!” protests Frank. He finally manages to click his case shut and surges to his feet. Bad idea. Major bad idea. Frank reaches for Otter’s arm to steady himself as the room spins, only for his skull to bounce as Otter shakes him off.

“No way. I’m not carrying you tonight, you lazy fucker. Go grab an amp or something.”

Frank is still reeling when Otter walks off, blinking again the haze in his vision. It’s hard to tell if he’s got a fever under the heat and sweat of the show, but he thinks maybe. It wouldn’t surprise him if he does.

He stands still with his hands on his hips just breathing until his vision clears before he grabs an amp and follows.

Frank is _not_ lazy. He’s not going to gain a reputation for it either.

*

They rotate the backseat between the five of them on a set schedule because it’s the only one without seatbelts and therefore the best one to sleep on. It is not Frank’s turn. The second best option is sitting on the floor behind the driver’s seat where you can stretch out your legs all the way and shove a pillow under your ass so it doesn’t go numb.

Gerard is already there on the floor when Frank finally clamors in. He’d been helping load up the van until every last piece was fitted in, even standing in the rain holding a flashlight while Otter played Tetris with his drum kit.

The rest of the guys are already piled in when they finish. Ray’s got the windshield wipers going with Mikey in the passenger seat, glasses fogged up from the rain. Otter hops in and lands on the backseat with a wet slap. Frank pulls the van door behind him, wincing as the slam rattles inside his head.

Gerard looks up from his comic book. The rain is probably good for him. It must wash out some of the grease. It leaves Gerard’s hair sticking black and inky in swirls on his cheeks.

“Wow. You’re fucking soaked,” Gerard says, pulling his comic in close. “Don’t drip on me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Frank because he knows. His teeth are already chattering as he slumps down on the seat, trying not to step on Gerard’s outstretched legs. He digs around under the seat until he finds his own bag, but his fingers are too cold to catch the zipper right.

“Could you just— Fuck, sorry. Could you just get this for me?” Frank asks, shoving the bag off his lap in frustration.

Gerard looks up in surprise. “Yeah. ‘Course, Frankie.”

He puts away his comic and unzips the back without any trouble. Then, he reaches in and finds a dry shirt without Frank haven’t to say anything which is a relief. Frank’s throat is fucking wrecked.

Frank peels out of his wet layers and shovels them into the trash bag someone has already got going near the door. Most likely all their clothes will mildew before anyone gets around to washing them, but Frank doesn’t give a fuck about that now.

He wiggles into the shirt Gerard holds out to him, then into a sweatshirt on top of that. It’s a little weird still, to peel off his jeans and do the same thing getting into his pajamas, but they’ve all gotten practice changing under a blanket at this point. Frank’s learned not to be embarrassed by his skinny chest or tiny frame. Mostly.

His skin is tacky even in the new clothes. Definitely only half of his dampness can be blamed on the rain.

The window glass is almost freezing when he finally settles down and presses his face against it. That’s probably not a good thing, but Frank’s pretty resolute in nothing thinking about worst case scenarios. So maybe he’s got a fever. It’s not like this is his first time.

It’s not like there’s anything to be scared of really. If worst comes to worst he’ll call his mom for his insurance number and drag himself to the ER. She’ll panic, of course, but they’ve done it all before.

The thought of losing the band to his stupid body is a lot scarier than any old cold.

*

Frank sleeps straight through the night and wakes to the jarring sensation of stillness after hours and hours of the van rumbling beneath him.

He groans as he sits up, a massive new kink in his neck, and a feeling like he’s been taken out back and beaten down into his bones.

He’s not alone in the van. Mikey sits curled up in the front seat, phone clicking away in hand and a map spread out on his knees. He cranes around when Frank grabs the back of the front seats and leverages himself up, thin mouth tipping down.

“You look like shit, dude,” Mikey reports bluntly. “Are you okay?”

“Where are we?” asks Frank, squinting his eyes against the morning and staring at the Shell station around them. It’s stopped raining, but the world still looks gray and gloomy around them.

“Three hours out.” Mikey hasn’t quit looking at him, even pulling his eyes off his phone to run them down Frank’s frame. Frank’s face feels hot. He knows he’s probably flushed and sweaty, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

“I’m gonna piss,” Frank says, and wobbles as he crawls across the seat to the door. Mikey’s head turns with him.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look kind of disgusting, Frank.”

“Mm fine,” Frank says and manages to yank open the door on his first go. He ignores how much his arms seem to tremble just from doing so, or how his fingers feel sort of numb. Piss and coffee. He can do this. It’s just a fucking cold.

Frank gets one foot down on the van’s step before his fingers give way on the door frame. Frank doesn’t have a chance in hell of saving himself. He does down hard, knees slamming into asphalt, rocks digging in, the shock of it all forcing his sight red.

He’s on his hands and knees blinking away the red, barely registering the slam of a van door opening, before hands are on his back pulling him up. This is a bad idea. Frank barely registers the swooping sensation in his gut before his stomach is coming up and splatting all onto the pavement and his hands.

“Shit,” curses Mikey, and it scares Frank for a second that it took him that long to make the obvious jump that Mikey was the one touching him. “Holy shit. That’s fucking nasty. Are you okay?”

Frank would have liked to have lifted a hand to wave Mikey off if he didn’t think it’d end with him tumbling into his own vomit. As it is, the smell of his own puke just makes him sicker. His head reels.

“Gee!” Mikey’s shout lands like a sledgehammer to Frank’s head. “Ray! Gee! Hurry the fuck up. He’s really sick.”

Footsteps rush towards them. Frank barely notices, too busy hacking up more bile to the cement. All the puking is making it hard for him to breathe which is always the scariest part. He’s sucking in air too quick and he knows it when new arms suddenly come around and pull him to his feet.

Somehow, Frank ends up sitting on the step of the van, his head between his knees and someone’s hands rubbing up and down his back. He’s not sure if he is following the world or time correctly because he can make out four pairs of shoes standing around his own and the last time he checked it was just Mikey and him.

At least it’s better away from his pile of puke, which he can still sort of see from the corner of his eyes. He squeezes them shut and rubs his face against his knee, hoping no one can see the frustrated tears that have gathered there.

He’s so sick of this happening. He’s _so_ sick of it.

“I dunno. I think he might need a real hospital,” someone is saying. It’s Ray, sounding mature and responsible and saying absolutely the worst thing.

“No hospitals,” Frank croaks. He’s fine. He is. He doesn’t need to go.

“There’s an urgent care twenty minutes from here,” says Mikey. “If we get him in now we might still be able to make the show.”

“Forget the show,” a third voice is saying—Gerard—and the hands on Frank’s back suddenly gain an owner. “He’s sick. He needs to see a doctor.”

“No hospitals,” Frank says, louder this time, and the hands on his back still.

“Frankie?”

Frank takes a deep breath and manages to sit up. It still sends his head spinning, but that’s fine. He blinks the spots from his eyes and pretends that that’s fine.

“I don’t need a fucking hospital,” he says. “It’s just a cold.”

Now that he’s up, he can see it when Ray and Mikey share a look. Mikey’s got his phone out and his mouth is pinched, and even Otter is looking nervous from where he’s peering out from behind Ray.

They’re not the one Frank needs to convince though. He turns, fishing until he finds Gerard’s face and pulls it into focus. Gerard’s looking back down at him, clearly unnerved.

“It doesn’t look like a fucking cold, Frankie,” Gerard says.

Frank shakes his head, stubborn. “I get sick,” he says. “It’s, like, a thing. It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

Gerard is quiet for a long time. Frank looks up to Ray and Mikey, who are both looking unconvinced but unsure. At least Mikey isn’t holding his phone in a death grip anymore.

“I just need to sleep it off,” Frank persists, turning his attention back to Gerard. “I’ve done it before. It’s not a big deal. Don’t cancel the show.”

Gerard waffles for all of five more seconds before sighing. Frank bites his cheek to hide his grin.

“Mikey, can you go and buy some gatorade,” says Gerard, “and those cracker things. The things Mom gets.”

“Saltines, yeah,” nods Mikey, already turning towards the gas station.

“I’ve got cash,” Frank adds, sagging now that he’s got his way.

Gerard just shakes his head and starts to tug him up, Ray coming up to help. “Forget that, Frankie. Come on. You’re going in the back.”

*

Frank falls asleep on the backseat without keeping track of the details. That’s why when he wakes up with his head pillowed on Gerard’s lap and fingers carding through his hair, he’s surprised.

It’s not morning anymore by the sky is still that low, wet gray from before. They’re not moving. When Frank glances away from the window he can see the back of the van is already unloaded.

Frank struggles to sit up, Gerard’s hands sliding off of him as he registers that Frank is awake.

“You feeling better?” Gerard asks, and his voice is low and soothing, like Frank’s stil sleeping or some shit.

Frank does actually feel a little better, even though he also feels like a pile of shit. “Yeah,” he opens his mouth to say, but his throat just croaks instead. Gerard’s face crumples in sympathy. He picks up an unopened Gatorade from a cupholder and cracks it open.

The sports drink tastes like pure sugar on an empty stomach, but good too. Mikey got him the red one, his favorite. He wonders how Mikey knew.

“We’re almost done with the set up inside,” Gerard says quietly, watching him with intent. “The guys are just finishing up.”

Frank nods, then shakes his head, trying to clear out of the sleep cobwebs. He winces when he clears his throat, but it helps. He manages to ask, “ ’s time?”

Gerard frowns. “Thirty minutes,” he answers, “but you’re not going on, Frankie. No way.”

Frank frowns right back at him. His fingers clench around the bottle, clammy and cold. “I’m fine,” he says firmly, even if it costs him everything not to wince as the words scrape out his throat.

“You’re not,” says Gerard, just as firm. “You’ve definitely got a fever. Ray’s already found a motel for the night. He’s gonna drop you off before the show starts just as soon as they’re done inside so you can get some real sleep.”

Frank closes his eyes. The black thing inside of him that’s always curled up just on the edge of his brain grows heavy. He feels suddenly exhausted.

“I can play,” he says again, but his voice is weaker. He’s not surprised when he opens his eyes and finds Gerard shaking his head, jaw clenched.

“You’re not getting up on that stage tonight. No fucking way, Frank. We don’t need you. It’s not worth it.”

And it’s basically exactly what Frank was expecting and feared. He doesn’t have the energy to fight the dread realization of it tonight though. That’s the killer thing about getting sick. It never leaves him any room to do or be anything else. 

“I’ll tell Ray you’re ready to go,” Gerard says, like everything is just fine and settled and done. He climbs over Frank carefully on his way out of the van, not looking back as he walks out towards the club.

Frank drops his head against the seat and tries not to think about how it took him less than a month in his favorite band before he proved to be disposable.

*

“Mikey’s gonna keep his phone on all night,” Ray repeats for the third time as Frank sits himself gingerly on the hotel bed. He’d tried to make for the fold out cot, not wanting to spread his germs to whoever was going to share his bed, but Ray had shaken his head and practically dragged him to one of the doubles.

“Just try to rest up, okay?” Ray says, wringing his hands and not looking at all happy. “We’ll bring back dinner. And call Mikey if you need to, okay? Or 9-1-1.”

Frank shrugs and picks at the orange hotel comforter and doesn’t look up even when the door closes.

He thinks about climbing into the shower to get warm, but every inch of him is just done. He falls asleep just after kicking his shoes off, barely managing to make it under the blankets.

*

Frank wakes when someone climbs under the covers with him. It’s dark in the hotel room and Frank can’t believe he slept through the guys coming in. He can hear what must be Ray snoring in the next bed over though, and can barely see Otter’s long form hanging off the cot near the window.

That leaves Gerard and Mikey. Frank isn’t surprised when he rolls over and finds Gerard’s body curled towards him. Gerard’s eyes gleam awake and watching in the dark.

“Shouldn’t. You’re gonna get sick,” Frank protests, but it’s a weak one. He’s not mad anymore. He’s drained of everything.

“Go to sleep, Frankie,” Gerard whispers. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Frank very much doubts that, but he’s too tired to argue. He curls up around his knees, trying to keep his germs to himself.

He wakes up just once in the middle of the night to a pointed nose digging into his spine.

*

When Frank wakes up in the morning, he can breathe without his lungs tightening into iron bands or his throat turning to lava. It’s impossible to tell what time it is with the blackout curtains drawn, but the snores of the band tell him it’s early. Frank peels Gerard’s hand away from his stomach and climbs out of the bed as quietly as he can.

The warm water from the shower is nearly orgasmic. Frank clears his nostrils and manages to breathe through his nose for the first time in days. He hokes up a loogie and spits down the drain until his throat runs almost clean too.

The turn in his sickness has come as suddenly as it always does, leaving Frank feeling like a baby for being so dramatic about it in the first place. His fever must have broken because he can think clearly about how bad this is going to look to the guys. Last night he was sick enough he was puking up in parking lots and making them waste money on hotels and now he’s walking around just fine on his own. They’re never going to believe it.

When he walks out of the shower Gerard is sitting up in bed. He blinks through day-old makeup at Frank, brows quirked in an obvious question. Frank shrugs a shoulder, wobbling a hand up and down, and Gerard beams.

“Breakfast,” Gerard declares in a whisper, once he’s clamored out of bed and come close enough not to wake the others. Frank just rubs his chest and nods, turning his back to pull on his clothes.

The sky is bright enough to pierce outside, the sun magnified under a near-white cloud cover. Gerard wrinkles his nose and hunches against it, looking even more like a vampire than normal. Frank just lets the sunlight wash over him, feeling thin and bleached out after everything.

Tougher, they walk into the hotel lobby and pile up plates with biscuits and orange slices and rubbery eggs. Gerard finds a little table tucked against the wall that has their knees knocking against each other every half-second. Gerard smiles at him over a cup of coffee as Frank sits down.

“You look better,” Gerard observes.

Frank winces. “Yeah. Sorry. You really could have just left me in the van last night.”

Gerard’s eyes, which had been closed in deep pleasure at the first sip of his coffee, open. “What? No.”

“You shouldn’t waste money,” Frank adds, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be able to keep a budget or else you’re going to run out of gas or not have money to fix a tire or something. That’s like touring 101.”

“I think we could just walk if we needed gas,” says Gerard.

“Sure, if you can afford it.” Frank drops his gaze, carving his nail into the edge of his paper plate. He feels strung out and warn. Tired. He says, “You never know how many problems will crop up though. Plus you need to start saving if you’re going to put more towards merch and stuff. You guys are just starting out. You’re gonna need to get as much stuff out with your name on it as possible. And you definitely need a trailer if you’re ever gonna go farther than the east coast.”

“Stop,” Gerard says tersely.

Frank pulls up short, head rising. “What?”

“Stop acting like you’re not in the band,” Gerard says. He sets down his coffee with an unhappy little dip to his mouth. “I thought you wanted to be here.”

“I do,” says Frank, thrown.

“Then stop acting like you’re not part of this,” snaps Gerard. He cuts through the air with a splayed hand. “You keep saying you. _You’re_ going to do this and _you’re_ going to do that. You’re acting like you’re not even in the band anymore.”

Frank draws his shoulders in tightly, suddenly unsure about everything again. “I’m not. I mean, I do. Of course I want to be here, Gee.”

Gerard still looks stiff across the table from him. He lowers his hand, tucking it mulishly back around his coffee. “You don’t act like it,” he says. Frank gapes like he’s been sucker punched. It gets worse when Gerard hunches over the table, nails digging into his styrofoam cup. “You didn’t even tell us you were sick.”

Frank breathes out slowly, leaning back against the booth. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Gerard sighs. He drags a hand down his face, suddenly looking tired. “You really fucking scared us, Frankie. It was like it came out of nowhere.”

Frank shakes his head, leaning across the table. “I get sick. Like, a lot. It’s just— I’m not like Mikey, you know? It’s not your job to worry over me or whatever. You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“You’re in the band,” Gerard says.

“Yeah, but—”

“You’re in my fucking band,” Gerard interrupts, jaw working. “Stop trying to find reasons not to trust us and just accept that you’re fucking in it. I wouldn’t leave Mikey in the back of the van. I wouldn’t leave Ray or fucking Matt. I’m not going to leave you.”

There’s something in Gerard that sparks sometimes. Something stubborn and angry and eye-catching that Frank usually only gets to spy on stage after Gerard’s had more than a few drinks. To catch a glimpse of it in the light of morning, with coffee and breakfast spread between them, makes Frank’s mouth run dry.

It reminds him why this is his favorite band. Why he gets shaky excited at the thought of a future together. Why the thought of leaving sounds like actual death.

“I’m sorry,” Frank tries again. He leans quickly across the table when Gerard scoffs, looking away. “No really. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

After a moment, Gerard looks back at him. He bites his cheek. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“Nah. I sort of deserved it,” Frank says. “I get sort of— I just don’t want to fuck this up, you know?”

“You’re not fucking up.”

“I mean, yeah,” says Frank, “not _yet_ maybe.”

“You’re not fucking anything up,” Gerard repeats, firmer this time. “You think we didn’t know you were an annoying shit before this? Or that you were a pothead with no personal space? Pull the fucking other one.”

Frank laughs. It’s a little wet still, his throat is still a bit sore, but it feels good. He relaxes against the booth with Gerard’s knee pressed up against his own and nods.

“Yeah, okay. I get it. You like me,” Frank says, grinning a little.

Gerard picks up his coffee, tapping their ankles under the table, and smiles back. “Unless you got me sick. Then, you’re dead to me.”

Frank laughs more, feeling like a real person for the first time in days. “Yeah.” He catches Gerard’s eyes across the table and wonders how he got this lucky. “I guess that’s fair.”


End file.
